Sunlight's Silk
by South of the Storm
Summary: The elvenking has beautiful hair...


**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien owns.**

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 **Sunlight's Silk**

It was somewhat normal for him to be fascinated by things like this. At his age, anything new and unique grabbed his attention and held his gaze stronger than one would have thought it could be held. His eyes, round and young, wide and full of childish curiosity, did not even blink. He didn't dare to. He might miss the movement. Not that the movement itself was fast, No, what he was watching, long tresses of white-golden silk, they did not move quickly, for they were not moving on their own. They moved as he moved. He being that powerful, awe-striking figure of his father. He was tall and sharp, a distinct figure in his world of blurred faces and similar attributes. He saw other people move and talk and sing, but when his father did it, it seemed so different.

His voice was stern, yet it had a fondness to it when it was directed at him. A fondness that his undeveloped mind could not comprehend but which never failed to bring a crooked smile to his small face. His father's hands were large, gripping to his scepter or perhaps his sword with a firmness that symbolized his skill and proficiency with the weapon. Perhaps it limply held a glass full of a dark red liquid, sloshing back and forth inside its confines but never spilling a drop. But whenever those hands held him, they were comforting and safe, loving and protective. There were so many conflicts within one being that to anyone else, he would seem intimidating and unstable. And to many he was revered in that way. But to him who was far too young to understand such a paradox, he simply saw it as magnificent and captivating. He wanted to study every inch of him.

Right now, it was his hair that had caught his attention. He loved the way it moved. When his father, that imposing yet gentle figure, stepped to the side, his head cocked at an angle to observe something with keen yet mild interest, the silk would shift, flowing carefully with the movement, then falling down his back once more. But it did not stop there. Though the elf was not moving anymore, his hair still shifted gently left to right before resting still again. The sunlight was causing it to glisten. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to capture its loveliness and hold onto it forever.

So the child moved towards his father. With slow but steady steps, he walked towards the elf, knowing that if he got close enough he just might be able to hold the lovely silk tresses in his small hands. How soft they would be! How beautiful and soft!

He was nearly there. With a small grunt of exertion that was no louder than the squeak of a mouse, the child lifted his arms and gripped tightly to his father's robe, tugging on the material.

"There you are, my son."

That voice. It held such fondness. And that fondness was for him. Strong hands came down and wrapped around him. He was in the air for a moment, then he was being held firmly by his father, at eye level with the elf. The child smiled, though a little shyly, as there was another figure present. It was one of the people his father often spoke to, yet he did not know his name. He only knew his face, as was all his young mind was capable of remembering.

But he did not care about him right now. He cared about his father. He desired the elf to look at him. He needed to see those eyes, so full of love and compassion, looking at him. A sense of safety came with seeing those eyes, though he would not have been able to say so at his age. He did not know what that meant. But he did know that he enjoyed being in the presence of this fierce and mighty yet loving elf he called a father. In order to impress him and see those eyes give him that loving stare, the child struggled around the words he had heard his father attempt getting him to repeat.

"A… Ada…"

It worked like a charm.

Those crystal eyes glistened briefly with an overwhelming amount of adoration. In order to hide such emotion and keep it from being shown in the presence of someone else, but also to cherish the innocent child who had taken the time to say his name and express love in that one word, Thranduil pulled his son towards him and embraced him warmly.

'You are precious, my little leaf."

The child did not know what his father said, but the words were tender and from the heart.

The positioning was perfect.

Now that his father was holding him so close, the child reached out one chubby arm and gently stroked the golden hair that fell down the elvenking's back, marvelling at its silky softness. It was like touching sunlight! Though he would not know what sunlight felt like, surely it could be no more beautiful than this. The child giggled softly and came to the conclusion that the only thing he had to do if he ever wanted to stroke the golden tresses of his father again, was to be sweet and loving and innocent.

"You love him dearly," he heard the other elf say.

"He is my only son. He receives all of my love."

"That child shall be the end of you, as much as you love him."

"That could never be."

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Legolas glanced to his left. The sun was in the perfect position. It was reflecting its rays off of his father's golden hair. He reached out a hand.

It was immediately flicked away.

Legolas cradle his injured hand and sent an equally injured expression towards his father.

"Do not touch me," the elvenking stated.

The young wood-elf pouted.

"I am not changing my mind, Legolas. Do not touch me."

Legolas tilted his head to the side and glanced up at his father.

"Do not even dare."

His tone was more resolute. Which meant his mind was cracking. Legolas brought his shoulders up and ducked his head while at the same time lifting his eyes and putting as much pathetic innocence into his expression as possible.

"I refuse to look at you."

He let out a soft whimper at the rejection.

"Legolas, be silent. You are not exactly acting your age."

He shifted closer.

"Legolas―"

"Ada…" he said quietly, his voice barely audible but sounding exactly as it did so many years ago when he was no taller than a baby elk.

The elvenking tried to fend it off. He had fended off worse evils. He had fought darkness itself and was triumphant. He had faced a confounded dragon! This should be no―

"Ada…"

"Curse you to the end of this world and back," he said without a hint of conviction as he wrapped his arms around the young elf and allowed his son to fall into his embrace and stroke the golden hair he was so strangely obsessed with.

As Legolas's fingers were entangled with his hair, Thranduil looked up to see an elf enter the room. The elf paused and allowed a knowing smirk to overcome his features, a smirk that most elves would not dare give to the terrifying elvenking. But at the moment, the great king of Mirkwood did not look so much like an imposing ruler as he did a disgruntled house cat.

"I did say he would be the end of you, my lord. It seems your dignity is to go first."

"Go find a stable to scrub," the king ordered, which was not the most befitting job to give the captain of his guard, but was the best comeback he could conjure up in light of the situation. He did not exactly feel regal and ruling with his son stroking his hair as though he were a pet of some kind.

"As you wish, my lord." And the elf left the two to their devices, the elvenking looking vexed and his son with an expression of pure, unadulterated bliss and contentment.

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 **Thank you for reading this little tidbit, I'll probably post more because I have a lot of short drabbles about Thranduil and Legolas, despite liking Dwarves so much. I have drabbles about Thorin and them too, but they aren't as well liked, you know? Elves are more popular. Anywho, hope you enjoyed this.**

 **—South**


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